Defamation Of Character
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: [CAT] I will not print lies about Gotham's villains. I will not print lies about Gotham's villains. I will not print...well, okay, maybe just this once...
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Part of the CATverse, which, if you don't know what that is...what, have you been under a rock for the past six months or something? See http/ www . freewebs . com / bitemetechie / catverse . html (get rid of the spaces) for the official timeline. This story isn't on it yet...because I came up with it this morning at five or so when I was sipping too much coffee and conferring with Bright Nova, but when it does get on there (curse my laziness), you'll find it in August after Chapel Of Lurve. Onwards!

-

Gotham city, more than most other cities, was a land of opportunists. While America was known around the globe as the land of opportunity, Gotham was, without a doubt, the land of opportunists. Hustlers, rustlers, thieves and conmen all found a home in Gotham city. The streets were so thick with them that you couldn't go five feet without running into a pickpocket or someone who ran a floating crap game on the side. It was just the way of things. Most people didn't notice right away when their jackets got just a slight bit lighter, due largely to the fact that most con artists in the area were so good at what they did that you didn't realize you were being had until you'd given away your life savings, house, hearth and the family dog with your blessings. They were _that_ good.

Of course, there were the more ostentatious criminals to be found--aside from the costume wearing variety, that is--the televangelists selling 'blessed' paper napkins to blue haired little old ladies were a perfect example. These were the people with get rich quick schemes, who cashed in on the hard work and lifelong dedication of other people without so much as a backwards glance or second thought to morals of integrity. All that mattered to them was money and the acquisition thereof.

As a general rule in Gotham, criminals could be divided into three separate groups. No matter what anyone said, that's all there was to it. Three groups of distinctly different types of people who were classified by society as 'criminal'.

First there is the casual criminal. The kid who steals a pack of gum, the guy who robs a convenience store because it's easy money, the girl who snatches a pair of bright red panties from a display because nobody's looking at that particular moment in time...

Casual crimes, casual criminals. All of them speaking of _convenience_ and nothing else. Easy money is their foremost concern.

After the casual criminal there is the _desperate_ criminal. This is the one who acts when they have no other conceivable choice except to turn to a life of crime. Vagrants, the guy who loses his job, wife, house and car all in the same week and holds up grandma because he needs to eat…they're the sob stories and the poor S.O.B.'s that become the human interest bits on the local news.

Finally, there's the _professional_ criminal. This is the one category where criminal behavior is an art form, lived out only by those people in the world who dedicate their entire lives to crime, honing their skills, practicing their arts and sharpening their wits, tools and techniques until they have all the precision of a surgical instrument.

Sadly, though they did make the news more often, professional criminals were rare in comparison to the sheer _volume_ of casual criminals. It was like plane crashes in comparison to car crashes. Though there are more people terrified of flying and winding up dead in a twisted pile of metal at the bottom of an ocean, the fact of the matter is you're more likely to die on the car ride to the airport than you are to die on the plane. So it was with Gotham's villainous populace. For every costumed madman who did large amounts of shocking damage in one fell swoop, there were twenty con artist 'casual criminals' whose smaller misdeeds were more detrimental to the city.

All the Joker could do was take your life or your sanity. A good con artist could take your livelihood; house, car and every penny in your wallet just because he wants _more_ out of life and doesn't care if he has to take it from somebody else to reach his goal.

Tammy Wilcox was one such person. A hopeful novelist who had yet to get her 'big break', tired of the daily grind and hard work that came with the world of prose, she took every shortcut she could, hoping to get as much money accrued as possible before she died. Never mind the fact that she couldn't take it with her. Even if money _couldn't_ buy happiness, she figured she could at least rent it for awhile.

With the anonymous publication of Diary Of A Henchgirl, Tammy saw a perfect way to bolster her writing career, which up until then, had consisted of trashy novels written under a nom de plume that she wouldn't even admit to having any affiliation with under threat of torture or severed limb. They paid the bills (barely), but her sensationalist mentality towards writing and her tendency to lean towards purple prose and insipid dialogue would keep her trapped in the world of pulp novels for the rest of her days if she didn't find a way out soon.

She was a talent less hack, to be frank, and like all talent less hacks, she sought to make herself look good by implementing that most popular method of gaining fame and fortune.

_Theft._

Diary Of A Henchgirl was published anonymously. Not even the publisher knew the identity of the author and the book was such a success it had sold upwards of three million copies in Gotham _alone_, not to mention the other cities where it had taken the bestsellers list by storm.

With 'Diary', there was the opportunity for that thing which all aspiring authors crave with all the hunger of a starving man.

Legitimacy, fame, fortune and recognition were all but a _single_ white lie away.

And Tammy was such a _good_ liar…

---

It took three months and more charm than Tammy thought she possessed, but she finally managed to get a meeting with Mister Clinton Gillinsby, head of Gillinsby Publishing House, with a fresh manuscript tucked under her arm.

She'd done her research. She knew every detail of Diary Of A Henchgirl inside and out, and could easily copy (and improve upon, in her opinion) the original author's style. With her web of lies spun so artfully it could make any self respecting spider jealous of the skill involved, she convinced poor naïve Clinton that she was the anonymous author of 'Diary' and that she'd come forward with a new text, promising that it would get to be bigger than the first volume had been.

Tammy even _graciously_ said that she wouldn't ask for more than five percent of the profits from the sales of the first tome, provided that she got full compensation for the second one.

Clinton was a nice enough guy, but he was a bit lacking upstairs when there was a beautiful woman sitting across from him, fluttering her eyelashes and gnawing at her bottom lip provocatively every few moments as she told him _just_ how much money he could make from the newer, _better_ sequel to Diary Of A Henchgirl.

He could almost see dollar signs and hear the KACHING! of a cash register over his raging libido.

_Almost_.

Either way, Tammy and Clinton struck a deal, wound up in bed together (or, more precisely, on Clinton's desk and oh wasn't that desk calendar comfortable when it was imbedded in one's back?), contracts were signed and 'The Secret Diary Of A Henchgirl' was slated for publication and release with Tammy coming away from the transaction several thousand dollars richer.

Clinton walked away with the assurances that the sequel was going to be bigger than the original

Too bad for Clinton that he never learned the ultimate entertainment lesson…

The sequel might cause a sensation, but in the end, it always pales in comparison to the original.


	2. Chapter 2

Techie awoke on that fateful morning the same way she woke most _other_ mornings.

She rolled out of bed and onto the floor with a thump.

Bruises aside, it was still better than waking before dawn courtesy of a night terror, and with a yawn and a stretch, she scrambled up off the floor.

The lair was eerily quiet when she emerged from her room and started for the little make-shift kitchen, eyes glued to the coffee maker like a starving man's would attach themselves to a cheeseburger.

Caffeine. God, let her make it to the caffeine before any disasters occurred. She didn't have the strength to slay any would-be assassins until she had _coffee_. Her dependence on caffeine to function might have been called an addiction, but Techie just considered it to be fuel, much in the same manner gasoline makes a car go, caffeine made _her_ go.

Shuffling to the coffee maker, she found the pot already full and a post-it note tacked to the top of it.

_Gone to get groceries. Cupboards are bare. Coffee's double strength Columbian this morning. Don't drink too much while we're gone, you know how you get! C&A_

Oh honestly. One little incident of caffeine poisoning and they never let it go.

She chugged two cups in rapid succession just to show those fools. She could hold her caffeine _just fine_. That sudden urge to bounce when she walked had _nothing_ to do with the caffeine…she was just in a good mood. Quite possibly the best mood she'd been in in _ages_.

The door to the lair slammed shut suddenly and surprisingly, she didn't jump, just turned calmly to see the Scarecrow and Riddler walking into the kitchen…

Though the Scarecrow's walk would more likely be called a stomp, due to the scowl he wore and the angry way he stalked into the room, a book tucked under his arm.

"Morning Squishy," she said brightly before turning to greet the Riddler. "Hi Eddums."

If she noticed that he suddenly looked a bit sweaty, nervous and bright red, she didn't make comment about it. "You guys want coffee?"

The Scarecrow looked, if at all possible, even _more_ sour when she held the coffee pot up in invitation. He glowered and Edward tugged at his collar with discomfort.

Techie didn't withdraw the pot from under Jonathan's nose until he actually _growled_ at her. "Geez, Jonathan, what bug crawled up _your_ shorts?"

His eyes flashed. "My shorts are of no concern to _you_, madam."

"Right, that's exclusively Al's department."

His expression turned thunderous for a moment and the wild idea that maybe he would slap her for that occurred to her.

Now, slapping didn't worry her…the capsule of fear toxin that he most assuredly had folded into one of his sleeves _did_.

"I mean, she _is_ the laundry mistress around here," Techie amended quickly.

He just got _more_ irate looking.

**THUMP.**

Crane pointed at the three inch thick volume he'd just deposited on the table. "Explain!" he demanded angrily.

"Huh?" She said eloquently in response to his furious shout.

"**NOW**!"

"Explain what? I don't--"

"The _book,_ you dull witted little fool! The BOOK!" He reached over, picked up the hardcover and chucked it at her with more force than was absolutely necessary, probably hoping to take out one of her eyes.

She caught it, _barely_, and looked at the cover.

A black domino mask was spread on waves of cream colored silk, accompanied by the title 'The Very Secret Memoirs Of A Henchgirl' printed in lurid type in a shade of red so dark it could have been brown.

"Very funny. How much did it cost you to print up the dummy book?"

With a huff, Crane marched forward, snatched the book from her hand, flipped it open, and handed it back to her.

She had to squint to see the print clearly, as she hadn't put on her glasses yet, but when things finally came into focus, her face went red. 

_Edward Nygma has always been able to undo me with the smallest of looks; the tiniest of touches. His skill when it comes to the way he makes me feel is absolutely unmatched. Jonathan is a talented lover, to be sure, but something about Edward just--_

Techie slammed the book shut and looked up long enough to glare at the man who'd tossed it to her. "Is this some kind of a _joke_? 'Ha ha, get a laugh at Techie's expense'?"

"I can guarantee you this is a _very_ serious matter." He pointed at the book. "That _thing_ is **everywhere**!"

"And you think **I**wrote this?"

"Didn't you?" He snarled.

"I didn't write this...this...I can't even come up with an adjective bad enough for it!"

"Are you _certain_?"

"Exsqueeze me?" Techie squeaked. "Let me tell _you_ something, buddy, I've written smut before and _that_ is **tripe** in comparison to anything that's ever sprung from _my_ pen!"

"That is the authorized sequel to Diary Of A Henchgirl," he returned, blue eyes locked with her black ones accusing readable in them as though they had they had the word floating across them like a news ticker.

"Oh? Authorized like the first one, was it? If you recall, **I** didn't 'authorize' _that_ one!"

"So? You wrote this to get back at me!"

"I would never! This is **not** my style! Itching powder in your costume, faking a pregnancy, getting you drunk and crawling into bed with you to make you think we slept together; _That_'s my style."

"You _swear_ to me you didn't write that?"

"On Shatner's life!"

Taken aback, Crane narrowed his eyes at her. That was very possibly that highest oath she could swear and though still looking somewhat doubtful, he was moderately placated.

"Fine. You didn't write it."

"You believe me?"

"Not that it matters…either way, if **you** didn't write it that doesn't tell me who _did_." His lip curled into a sneer. "Every villain in Gotham is featured in that obscene manuscript and none of them in a particularly flattering light! Even the _heroes_ of Gotham didn't get away unscathed!"

He flopped down in a chair, arms tightly folded across his chest.

"You read the whole _thing_?"

"I skimmed!" He defended. "To see what had been said about _me_."

When she didn't reply, he glanced up at her to find she was staring at Nygma, not really seeing him and looking rather pale.

"_What_?"

"It just occurred to me...if...if you were angry about this...and this book has _other_ villains and heroes mentioned in it...and everyone _else_ thinks I wrote it." She swallowed thickly, looking very much like she might pass out at any moment.

"I'm a dead woman."


	3. Chapter 3

There were a few things you didn't do in Gotham if you wanted to keep breathing.

One of those things towards the top of the list was 'pissing off the Joker'.

If you wanted a one way ticket to the happy hunting ground, _then_ you irritated the man in purple. If you _didn't_ have a death wish, you avoided annoying him at all costs.

"Cut off my own arm? Sure, Mister Joker, sir! Anything you say! _Just don't kill me._"

But _someone_ didn't seem to grasp the fact that you weren't supposed to actively try to make him angry. _Someone_ did something so _unspeakable_ that he was on the warpath, and murder and mayhem followed him as a result.

The moment 'Memoirs' had been published, the Joker had sent a henchman to get his paws on a copy. What better way to cheer himself up than with more adoration written by that whoever-she-was that worshiped the ground he walked on? Now that she had resurfaced, alive and unharmed, she'd seen fit to write another book--one that most likely _dripped_ with compliments for the clown prince of crime!

Sadly, the way _he_ was portrayed in the volume was far from being complimentary. As he flipped each and every page, his smile drifted downwards (as far as his disfigurement would allow, at any rate) and rage bubbled to the surface, brutally shoving all his jolliness aside.

He threw the hardcover right back in the face of the henchman who'd fetched it, knocking him over with its sheer size.

The audacity of the author to suggest the Joker antagonized Batman because he was _in love with him_! How absurd! More than absurd! Absolutely insulting!

The Joker had poured over 'Diary Of A Henchgirl', wearing out the spine of his copy in Arkham as he read and reread it, enjoying the way the unknown author appreciated him from afar, and this…this was just such a slap in the face!

Oh, she was going to _pay_ for this presumption! If he had to hunt her to the ends of the earth, he would find her and wring her neck for this trash!

---

The Joker wasn't the only villain in Gotham who was angry about their representation in the recent best seller, but he was the only one who actually implemented a plan to get back at the author and her fellow henchgirls.

It was unknown to the Captain and Al that there was a plum colored shadow watching their every move as they left the grocery store, each with a large paper bag clutched in her arms, but it became quite apparent as the made their way down the block when the aforementioned shadow came out of hiding and stood before them on the sidewalk in all his violet clad glory.

His smile was a little too broad and his eyes looked just a little bit _too_ eager as he stared the two women down.

Not surprisingly, they dropped their bags in shock, not bothering to even _consider_ stooping to pick them up again.

Egg yolks and orange juice ran over the pavement as he loomed over them, all disconcerting grin and intimidating height, not to mention the rather worrying lime green spray canister he had in his hand.

"Where's the _other_ one?"

The Captain blinked, calling up all the information she possibly had on the Joker. All she could hear in her head was a miniature Donald O'Conner, dancing around singing _Make him laugh. Make him laugh. Make him laugh._

"Elsewhere?"

He didn't laugh, but his smile got a little wider. "You're _funny_." He glanced at Al, who'd gone chalk white. "Breathe, dear."

A heaving gasp was his answer. After all, she wasn't going to disobey the guy who held her life in his hands…he was just nuts enough to spray them for something so trivial as not following his order to _breathe_.

He let out a little chuckle. "Repeatedly, that's the way breathing _works_."

Al was hyperventilating before she knew what was happening, certain that an asthma attack wasn't far behind.

"You're awfully good at following orders, aren't you?"

Dumbly, they both nodded.

"Good, tell me _where_ the one who wrote the book is," he swept his gaze over both of them. "_Now_."

The Captain and Al didn't get the opportunity to answer, the sound of applause exploded from the window of the shop he'd cornered them in front of, coming from the televisions on display. Some random daytime talk show was playing and while under ordinary circumstances he would've just returned to terrorizing the author bitch's friends, the fact that the cover of 'The Very Secret Memoirs Of A Henchgirl' flashed across the screen held his attention rapt.

"Welcome to a very special live edition of the Vicki Richardson Show." The host was a very angry looking little woman with white blonde hair and a bossy demeanor as she virtually _shouted_ into her microphone. "The author of 'The Very Secret Memoirs Of A Henchgirl' has come out of hiding to speak with us today, and I do hope you'll all give her a warm welcome: Miss Tammy Wilcox!"

A busty blonde walked on stage, perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect _everything_…

The Joker paused and glanced at the two terrified women in front of him, narrowing his eyes as he struggled to recall what the third of their trio looked like. "That's not her."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement. He didn't even need them to confirm what he said, he _knew_.

Without a word, he gave them _and_ the television one last look before he turned on his heel and stalked away.

Whether he knew that Al had fainted from oxygen deprivation as he sauntered away wasn't clear, but the Captain noticed it.

Or would have, if she hadn't joined her friend in stressed out delirium.

---

The television studio where the Vicki Richardson Show was taped was blown to smithereens and nobody was really surprised about it, either. Especially not the people who'd bought the book and realized that to insult a villain was to incite their wrath.

However, an explosion, in the opinion of the Joker wasn't a degrading enough death for the woman who'd slandered his name.

She was never found, but rumors surfaced about the fact the Joker had given her a nice new pair of cement pumps to match the pretty purple bruises he'd been so kind to provide all over her body. It was thought she was at the bottom of the nearest lake, but some people wondered if maybe the Joker had been a mite bit more creative than _that_.

It took less than a week for things to get straightened out in the criminal community and for Techie's own halfway-decent name to be cleared of all crimes involved with that travesty of a book.

Clinton Gillinsby hadn't been quite as lucky though. When it was found out that the woman who'd written 'Memoirs' was a fraud, he lost most of his _good_ authors as well as his reputation as a respectable publisher. 

What's more, he got the joy of a visit from the Scarecrow and his henchgirls, who were _very_ put out about the whole messy business, and he only _barely_ escaped being flayed alive by swearing up and down that he hadn't _known_ the book was a fake and that he'd make it right.

He escaped being flayed alive, sure, but he didn't get out of being a test subject for an eager Jonathan Crane's newest fear toxin variation, and they left him in his office, a blubbering mess before they set the building alight and watched it burn.

Quite possibly the most _unusual_ thing that happened after all the dust settled was a gift that was left at the Scarecrow's lair.

A dozen bright purple poppies were on the doorstep one morning with a long, drawn out letter from the Joker for his admirer with a penchant for writing--the _real_ one.

The letter was passed between all four occupants of the lair and each read it in turn.

The Joker was writing love letters and leaving them on the doorstep…

It was hastily agreed that it was most definitely time to move.

Preferably to another planet.


End file.
